


Cowboys and Snipers

by helloshepard



Series: helloshepard's CYBERVERSE fix-it fics [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Cyberverse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Season 3 Spoilers, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloshepard/pseuds/helloshepard
Summary: Wild Wheel returns to Cybertron.
Relationships: Dead End/Perceptor (Transformers)
Series: helloshepard's CYBERVERSE fix-it fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703764
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Cowboys and Snipers

_93\. “It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion"Deadceptor + rude bar patron_

Astrotrain’s return was preceded by the biggest dust storm post-war Cybertron had ever seen, and uncomfortably dry winds continued to pummel Iacon with grit as Dead End worked.

He had already spent a good part of the morning scraping piles of sandy debris away from the front entrance to Maccadam’s before it opened. His engine hitched—some of the dust had found its way down his intake, and he had no doubt that the spaces between his plating and protoform were absolutely _packed_ with dust.

Inside Maccadam’s, Perceptor was attempting to repair the jukebox. While Dead End had been in the back grabbing more subspace-filtered engex, Soundwave and the Tetrahexan had gotten into a fight the night before last, ending with the latter bot’s horns skewering the machine.

Until then, they had done a pretty good job enforcing the ‘no fighting’ rule—and Dead End was pleased to know that _he_ proved an effective deterrent if Perceptor’s matter-of-fact reminder didn’t do the trick.

The door mostly cleared, Dead End stepped inside Maccadam’s. Perceptor was still working on the jukebox, which was now operational _,_ but played only one song.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Dead End crouched beside Perceptor. When he was certain the Autobot had registered his presence, Dead End reached out and placed a hand on Perceptor’s frame. It came away dusty, leaving a faint imprint on Perceptor’s armor.

“You ready to open?” Dead End asked.

“As soon as you are.” Perceptor replaced the jukebox panel and stood. “Soundwave has requested we hire him to curate the bar’s entertainment.”

“You’re not seriously considering saying yes?” The thought of Soundwave, ever-present, playing his obnoxious songs, watching knowingly as Dead End and Perceptor cleaned up after closing…Dead End grimaced. “Aren’t he and Hot Rod trying to take over Cybertron or something?”

“They are attempting to organize a new ruling body,” Perceptor said. “Which is why I told him no.”

“Good.” Dead End listened to Hot Rod _slightly_ more than he listened to Soundwave, and to hear the bot speak—he was doing the equivalent of fighting a legion of Air Hammers armed with nothing more than acid pellets and witty banter. Dead End hadn’t participated in any of the protests that were taking place outside the newly rebuilt Imperium, but then, he had never been one for politics.

Politics were for bots like Soundwave and Hot Rod, who’d been sparked with either the charisma or the bolt-headed stubbornness to make a difference. It didn’t matter who won—if Optimus got his way or Hot Rod and Soundwave did, chances were, Dead End would still be here.

He wondered if Perceptor believed the same thing.

“Astrotrain messaged me earlier today,” Perceptor said. “He told me he had met someone who could track the Insecticons and was transporting him here.”

“I thought he was supposed to be keeping Megatron X prisoner,” Dead End muttered. “Not working as an multiversal space bus.”

Perceptor shrugged. “I am sure he will explain when he arrives.”

“Yeah.” There was already a line forming outside the bar—mostly the early afternoon regulars, but there were a few new bots. Probably here early because the dust storm had prevented them from working. Dead End gave the place a final once-over, then went to unlock the door. “He’ll probably dump the poor idiot into the Argon Sea.”

“Not if he does it to you first.”

“Ugh.” Dead End stepped aside to let in the dust-covered bots who’d been waiting outside, and immediately regretted bothering to clean the place last night.

He spent the next hour taking orders and helping Perceptor make the drinks—rather, watching Perceptor and his dexterous scientist hands make drinks so quickly and smoothly Dead End couldn’t do much _but_ watch.

Just as the sun had begun to peek through the oppressive dust clouds, the door opened, and a stranger walked in.

Dead End would never admit it to anyone else—he barely admitted it to _himself—_ but over the last few months, he had become attuned to Perceptor. He had begun to notice the other bot’s small, unconscious moments; the way his back straightened incrementally whenever a ranking Autobot walked into Maccadam’s, the tilt of his head whenever he was trying to figure something out.

Now, he was on edge. His grip on a bottle of subspace-filtered engex tightened, so much so that Dead End feared he might crush it.

He looked up.

The bot was dressed like a Senator—with a woven cloak, and head covering clearly based off of organic fashions, he looked more suited to an evening in the Grand Imperium than a Maccadam’s.

Almost instinctively, Dead End came to stand beside Perceptor. He was trying to _loom,_ but considering he was shorter than Perceptor, Dead End wasn’t sure the effect was entirely accurate.

“I’m lookin’ for Optimus Prime.”

Dead End wondered if he had just imagined the blank spaces of Perceptor’s optics narrowing.

The stranger’s hand had been lingering on the holsters strapped to his waist, but without waiting for a reply, he lifted a hand—the universal gesture for ordering a drink, Dead End had learned.

“Don’t even think about it,” Perceptor said. Dead End looked down. The stranger’s free hand had been inching towards the revolver.

“Weapons are allowed in this joint, aren’t they?” He jerked his head in the direction of a group of heavily bots who were no longer pretending not to gawk. “Where’s Maccadam?”

“You looking for Maccadam or Optimus Prime?” Dead End snapped.

“I’m not talkin’ to you, ‘con.”

“Dead End is as welcome here as you are,” Perceptor said evenly, and slid the drink over the counter.

It sat untouched.

The stranger’s free hand twitched.

He shot three glasses before Dead End’s body caught up with his processor.

He sprang into action. Ignoring Perceptor’s shout, he vaulted over the counter to tackle the stranger, who stood unmoved by Dead End’s actions. What he _did_ do was grab Dead End and slam him onto the nearest table. It cracked under the sudden pressure, and Dead End felt his spinal struts protest.

“I’m not asking again.”

Dead End kicked him in the face. The stranger stumbled back, giving him enough of an opening to sit up and rummage through his subspace for his weapon. A blast hit his hand—at this range, it wasn’t enough to destroy his hand completely, but it was enough to burn completely through his plating.

“Come here.”

He grabbed Dead End by the foot, dragging him out of the bar. Dead End struggled to orient himself, catching a glance of Perceptor reaching under the bar for his own rifle.

Dead End groaned as fresh grit and dust worked its way under his plating as he was tossed unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Optimus Prime. Where is he?”

“How should I know?” Dead End snarled. Pit. With the amount of dust getting into the circuitry, his hand would need more than some nanites. “You’ve got some nerve, coming into Maccadam’s and—”

“It’s a real shame I never asked for your opinion.” Dead End jerked his injured hand away as the stranger moved to grab it. “Talk. Or my next shot will be aimed at your spark.”

Dead End saw the impact of a shot hitting the bot’s shoulder. The stranger stumbled back, more surprised than injured, Dead End thought.

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Try me.”

“I have shot a hand off a Phase-Sixer,” Perceptor said. “Do you _really_ want to question my competence with a weapon?”

The bot hesitated. The hole in his shoulder smoked.

“You win this one.” His optics narrowed. “But I’ll be back.”

“Don’t bother.”

Dead End didn’t look away until the bot was out of sight. He groaned and sat up.

“It appears to be superficial damage,” Perceptor said.

“Yeah, but it _hurts.”_ Dead End gave in and deactivated the nerve sensors in his hands. He moved to get to his feet. Obligingly, Perceptor held out a hand. Dead End accepted, cradling his injured hand against his side. “You gonna help me fix it?”

“Of course.” Perceptor intertwined his fingers in Dead End’s. “I can’t have you capable of holding only _one_ of my hands.”

Dead End snorted. “Who was that guy, anyway?”

“I am reasonably sure of his identity,” Perceptor said. “But I would like to confirm it independently. Shall we go back?”

Dead End smiled. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: soundwavereporting
> 
> twitter: hello_shepard
> 
> Next chapter's gonna have hand-fixing fluff...Astrotrain shenanigans...you know...


End file.
